Sometimes There Are Voices
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: Some doors should stay closed.


**Warnings:** Dark!Fic, Horror  
><strong>AN:** Written for **who_contest**'s Prompt**: **_Unseen_. I must say that what I had planned to write and what eventually allowed itself to be penned were two different things. There are a lot of elements that are the same - tone, pace, ideas - but this was not exactly what I had expected to set to metaphorical paper. I don't know what is happening here, but I'm quite sure that anyone who reads it will figure it out long before I do. I can only hope that it is enjoyed - and that any errors I (likely) made were few. As always, this fic is mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. And (as per usual), I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/dark/blithery and unbeta'd.

**Disclaimer(s): **_I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!_

* * *

><p>"Amy…"<p>

Amelia Pond.

"..why did you come here? Where did you think you were going?"

"I thought there were…Doctor, there was a voice –"

_Sometimes there are voices._

"I thought…I thought I saw –"

_A crack…in the skin of the universe…in the wall_

(in your mind)

"Never mind that, Amelia –"

Fairytale.

"Come along -"

Pond.

"- Rory's been worried."

"Who?"

"_I've_ been worried."

A nod. Fingers cold and clenched too tightly around his own.

"Where am I?"

"You're asleep, Amelia."

"Am I?"

_She's just dreaming._

(That hasn't happened yet.)

"Yes."

(Liar.)

"Do you hear them?"

"Hear what?"

"The voices…"

"No."

(_LIAR._)

Their footsteps echo along the corridors as they walk back to safety, back to the console room (the other heart of the TARDIS). The door to the cloister-room ajar behind them; cloisters silent and lights dim.

He told himself he didn't notice.

That he didn't hear –

(_Silence_)

any voices.

He didn't.

The chuckle (soft, deadly) hummed under his skin, felt but never heard – the monster that had dwelled here long gone.

(Or maybe it was still there, he just wasn't aware of it.)

He pretended the shiver under his skin was just because of the chilly air. Happens this close to the true heart of the TARDIS.

_Good guys don't have monsters._

(That hadn't happened yet, either.)

"Only room for one monster –

(Psychopath)

on this Ship."

"Doctor?"

"Sorry. Nothing. Never mind. Come along, Pond."

By the time the door clicked closed, there was no one there to see it.

O-o-O

"Did you hear that, sweetie?"

"Hear what?"

"It almost sounds like…a nursery rhyme."

"No. I don't hear anything."

"Where does that door lead to?"

"What door?"

"The one behind you, silly man. Weren't you just in there?"

"No – why do you never wear this dress? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing's wrong with it. Except everything. Ohhh, don't look like that. Zip me up and get that look off your face. I'll wear it next time."

"Hmmm."

"Where did that door go to?"

"What door?"

"The door that was _behind_ you – you know, for such a supposedly observant man, you sure do miss a lot, sweetie."

"I'm sure it's around here somewhere. You know how it is."

"Huh. The nursery rhyme has stopped, too. Fascinating. Are you sure you didn't hear it?"

_Sing a song of sorrows. A pocket full of sighs. Four and Twenty horrors caught within my lies._

"No."

"Must be my mind playing tricks on me, then. Ready to go?"

"Always, dear."

The door that was no longer there closed with a loud bang.

He pretended he didn't hear that, either.

O-o-O

The last decade had been a slow one.

They were long gone – his Ponds. It was something he had dreaded and prayed against and watched for. Because it always happened. Not exactly like that. But it always did.

There were ways around that, measures that could be taken. It wouldn't help with being lonely, but then, he was always lonely, wasn't he? Even with his ghosts, he was alone. Acquiring more ghosts just seemed…exhausting.

The answer, the end result was easier than he expected. Maybe too easy.

He never traveled. He never talked to anyone. Even the Paternoster Gang eventually stopped calling – a relief and a curse – his Ship just as silent as they; sleeping the sleep of the old and tired. He didn't even bother to talk to himself anymore (as he already knew the answers to his own questions), frightened at how old and tired his own voice sounded.

Every now and again he thought of the door he had opened: 'his' door and the secret that burned behind it. His faith in that tiny, tiny glimpse of future unknown the only thing that kept them all from being eaten.

So long ago now.

Where had his faith gone?

The door that was in front of him had opened. It wasn't that door from long ago, but it was just as dangerous. Filled with things he shouldn't know, even as it was marked as something that belonged to him.

He told himself he would never look.

He closed it before that, too, became a lie.

O-o-O

Sometimes (a lot of times), there was a tapping noise. Four taps and no more.

Sometimes (most of the time), there was singing.

Every time, he told himself it was a dream.

That the monster that had been engulfed in his Ship, swallowed by the heart of Her, was long dead. That truly, the (perfect) copy he had encountered was the Real Thing and it, too, was long dead.

Both of these truths were lies.

(Or was that the other way around?)

The monster of his imagination wasn't real.

_He's just dreaming._

Even as something that determined could never be dead.

'_I don't die, I just change my face –_'

Something that dead could never have ever truly been 'alive'.

'_Just a really good…'mare_'

Or was that a lie, too?

(the door opened)

He closed his eyes

('_Sing a song of sorrow, a pocketful of sighs._')

told himself it was a dream

('_Four and Twenty horrors…_')

and promised to never look.

('_…caught within my lies._')

Chilly, leather-encased fingers caressed the nape of his neck.

(phantoms of the mind)

He held his breath.

("_Don't you hear it?_")

All was quiet.

("_No._")

Something sighed behind him.

(Goodguysdon'thavemonsters)

He had forgotten that monsters were real.

O-o-O

The door stayed open.

(His eyes stayed closed.)

The fingers of the dead tightened along the back of his neck.

(He's just dreaming.)

He would never be alone again.


End file.
